


My Wolf

by Deus_Ex



Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, Established Relationship, Ficlet, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Service Top Jaskier, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Written in one sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: Geralt ponders briefly the perils of loving a mortal man.  As those precious lips breathe kisses against his, though, crooning sweet adornments he has by no means earned, he decides to indulge himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Neither Wolves Nor Witchers Feel [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601413
Comments: 64
Kudos: 934





	My Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Final installment in the series. Geralt's POV this time. As always, unbeta'd, we die like Witchers.

_Butcher._

_Mutant._

_Freak._

_Abomination._

_Butcher._

_Unnatural._

_Freak._

_Butcher._

_Animal._

_Butcher._

_Monster._

_Butcher._

_Butcher._

_Butcher._

_My wolf._

***

Jaskier’s fingers are tangled in his hair. It’s the first time he’s allowed it. The first time he enjoyed it. The first time he craved it. He leans into the kiss they share like he’s dying for it, only parting to share breath and even then not going far. Sweat-slicked skin slid easily across more of the same, the scent of it cloying in his nose but not unpleasant. Lying back, arching as Jaskier tugged at his hair again, Geralt’s amber eyes slid shut as the bard began to shift his attentions downward. Kissing from the corner of his mouth across the strong cut of his jaw traveling down the groove in his neck where a pulse occasionally beat over varying mounds of muscle-

“Jaskier,” he groans, and even to him it sounds desperate and needy and-

“My wolf,” the younger man sighs in response, still barely lifting his lips from where they’ve settled in the divot of Geralt’s hip. Groaning again in appreciation, Geralt bucks his hips, chasing the contact, while his hands tangle in the wrecked sheets beneath them. Uttering a choice curse at the feel of a hand splaying across his other hip, Geralt quiets just long enough to feel Jaskier’s smirk against his skin before he lovingly nips at the gap between muscle and bone. The weight of Jaskier's hand against him is nothing, inconsequential, barely-there, and Geralt could dislodge it by simply rolling sideways. It keeps him pinned, though, like it was an entire basilisk leaning on his leg. Somehow, Geralt cannot bring himself to move if Jaskier has asked him not to. He's rewarded with another caress from the thumb that has settled on the muscle sloping down towards his groin, and another, sharper love-bite. The pinch sends a shockwave of lust through him, and Geralt settles for twisting in impatience, since apparently he’s not allowed to buck.

“Such a beauty,” Jaskier breathes, beginning to trace the dips in his muscles with his hands while his mouth alternates between joining the exploration and babbling some lust-inspired masterpiece waxing poetic about Geralt’s incomparable appearance. “I had material for years after bedding you once, Geralt, but after having had the privilege to repeat the act, I must say, I will have lyrics until my death.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries, gently, failing to keep the gravel from his voice and the impatience from his tone as he opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, measure his breaths, and attempt to retain some semblance of control.

“You are...absolute sin," Jaskier gasps in between increasingly-desperate kisses laid against skin set aflame by desire. "You are debauchery. You are depravity. You are-”

“Jaskier, you can fuck me, or you can get out.”

The sharply-worded and sharper-toned rebuke seemed to break the spell. Fortunately. Visibly making an effort to scoop his brains back into his skull, Jaskier stammered, “Right. Um...right. I’ll...get to it then.”

And just as Geralt is rolling his eyes and considering all the reasons to kick Jaskier right back out of the bed in favor of finishing himself off in relative peace and quiet, Jaskier gets himself in gear and remembers why he's there and dips his fingers in a generous amount of oil. He moves slowly, considerately, and in a way that no one has ever touched Geralt. There is no hesitation, no revulsion. Jaskier doesn't snatch his hands away as soon as he's accomplished what he's there to do like he'll be burned if he lingers. He doesn't use feather-light, fluttery movements, afraid of either shattering Geralt or angering him. He isn't business-like in his attentions, impersonal and cold. He touches him slowly, softly, like he's savoring every moment of this and committing it to memory. Like Geralt is something _valuable_ and _beautiful_ and all those other lovely things he says that Geralt usually dismisses with a snicker, more from discomfort and denial than disdain. Arching off the bed as Jaskier reaches deep and settles deeper, crooking his fingers in search of his pleasure, Geralt is halfway to undone with the bard only just beginning his tender ministrations. Belatedly, Geralt remembers that Jaskier is in fact quite good with his hands...and the fact that he touches him like no one else ever has makes quite the difference.

It took several years of flirting with the issue, dancing around it, beating around the bush, for both of them to finally take the deep breath, and then the plunge. It took another few years after that for Geralt to allow Jaskier any sort of liberty in their coupling. Several more to at last grant the bard the privilege of complete and total freedom with his body. Geralt had slept better than he had in years after that. Jaskier had taken hours with him, torturing him in the best of ways, coaxing and caressing and cajoling until Geralt was near mad with lust. Though he would never admit it, that had been the best fuck Geralt had ever had. Not for Jaskier’s lack of trying in subsequent encounters, though.

The taste of iron flooded his mouth as his teeth punctured the tiny capillaries lining the inside of his lip as Jaskier pressed his second finger into him. Though the rhythm never faltered, Jaskier had leaned up and licked away the beading droplets before Geralt had even registered him moving. All he felt was Jaskier’s hand, two fingers reaching deep, thumb pressed to the skin just in front of that. Jaskier’s face was smug and proud when Geralt cracked an eye at him, breathing a bit and definitely still sweating.

“Stop doing that,” Jaskier scolded, sprawled out across his chest, grinning like a little shit as he leaned up again and gave Geralt another nip. “You know I like your voice.”

“You know I like your cock, but I’ve yet to receive it.”

“Oo, feeling saucy tonight. May I remind you-”

_“Either fuck me, or get out.”_

“You will feel it for days if I do, dear, you are nowhere near-”

_“Maybe that’s what I want.”_

Oh, and even if he couldn’t ride for days, as Jaskier so emptily promised, it was well worth it to see the look of combined shock and ardor that smacked Jaskier fully across the face then. Words now flown in the heat of the moment, Jaskier hastily did as requested, and Geralt threw back his head as the feeling of completion settled into his bones as heavily as Jaskier settled into his body.

Jaskier was hung well, and Geralt did this so infrequently that he did feel the promised sting of the stretch. Sometimes, he was content to lay back and let Jaskier spread him open, one finger at a time, slow and gentle and catering to his pleasure. But tonight, he needed something more raw, more aggressive, more _claiming._ And as he hooked a knee behind Jaskier’s hip and felt himself finally give, felt Jaskier relax into him, he couldn’t choke back the needy growl that crawled up out of his throat. Jaskier, the bastard, just kept smirking at him even as he began to move, setting about that claiming that the Witcher so desperately needed.

He came between them, still undecided if he preferred fucking up into Jaskier’s fist or fucking down onto his length. And Jaskier, damn him, bless him, had bent low over him as he fucked him through it chasing his own release, forearms pressed to the bed on either side of his face, so close he could feel Jaskier’s skin without them actually touching, and he tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair and gave a fairly decent growl as he told Geralt, _“Mine,”_ and found his climax with a particularly deep thrust. Even after he’d finished, Geralt’s strong arms found his shoulders and held him close, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathing deeply the scent of him in heat and seeking to prolong the moment, if only for another handful of seconds.

Jaskier insisted on slipping away when he began to soften; Geralt let him go easily then, his blood perhaps not entirely cooled but certainly less hot than when they’d started. Placating him with a quick kiss against his rumpled hair, Jaskier set off in search of a damp cloth to clean up with. He returned blessedly quickly, swatting Geralt’s hands away and lightly pushing at him to make him lay down again while he cleaned up the worst of the mess between them. After cursorily wiping himself down, he wriggled back into bed with Geralt, drawing a fur over them to fight off the chill in the room that would reach them quite soon, despite the best efforts of the hearth on the other wall.

Geralt slept lightly, but restfully, and, when he woke, felt comfortable enough to turn over, tighten the grip on Jaskier that had never truly broken during the night, and slide closer to negate the inches that had grown between them. Jaskier, waking then, had smiled and turned onto his side to face Geralt, propping up his head on one hand as the other lovingly carded through the Witcher’s hair. Seeing as wolves didn’t purr, it wasn’t an apt comparison, but Jaskier liked to think the rumbling growl Geralt gave at the contact was appreciative.

_Witchers didn’t feel._ Bullshit.

***

It was one of the first things they had discovered: Geralt always slept well when he and Jaskier shared a bed. It didn’t matter the circumstances, or whether they had fallen asleep sweat-soaked and naked or clothed and chaste. Something about the scent of warm sunny days and buttercups in his nose and the feel of a softer, smaller body next to him felt right. Particularly when that someone would put an arm around his shoulders, so broad that his fingers barely brushed the other side, or would run his fingers through his hair, or would trace idle, mindless patterns across his skin. It was soothing, it was calming, it was reassuring. Jaskier wasn’t afraid to touch Geralt, like so many others were. _My wolf,_ Jaskier would remind him, as people spat their hatred and distrust and revulsion at him. It made it easier to bear.

*** 

Jaskier touched him so easily. So naturally. So liberally. It was odd, but not unwelcome. While Geralt had, admittedly, resembled a deer caught in passing lanternlights the first few times Jaskier had graced him with anything other than a fleeting caress, he had quickly become amenable to the contact. For so long, he’d made do with paid women and violence to suffice for the feeling of another’s hands on him: if his wounds were too egregious for him to address on his own, he was most certainly unconscious for whoever else was working on him. But Jaskier would (needlessly) help him in and out of his armor. Jaskier would (needlessly) clean and dress and bandage his wounds. Jaskier would (needlessly) comb out his hair when it got too tangled and flyaway for the bard’s own liking, nevermind Geralt. Even the little ones, that were unintentional and likely not even thought about: the brush of their shoulders as they squeezed in by the bar to get food, or the quick catch of their fingers as they passed something to each other. Jaskier would even brush down Roach, and the mare would stand there docilely, chewing on whatever hay the stable boys had given her. Geralt was floored. Roach tolerated no one but him, and tended to make that fact quite well known, usually with a well-placed kick. 

Geralt didn’t know at what point he’d come to expect and even enjoy the touches. But he knew that, at some point, he’d acquiesced to Jaskier’s demands that he _sit still for once, dammit,_ and had found Jaskier’s hands kneading at his shoulders as he soaked in a rare hot bath. It felt heavenly, especially when he could lean his head back and rest against the pillow of Jaskier’s thighs. The trust and quiet was rewarded with a quick kiss against his hair, freshly washed and still dripping and smelling strongly of soap and oil, and Geralt paused to wonder when he’d gone from an untamable beast to a bridled wolf brought well into hand. 

*** 

Ah, yes, that was right: he was, in fact, still an untamable beast. 

The people left on the street were either laid out in pools of blood or were huddling behind whatever makeshift cover they could find, frozen in horror. All except Jaskier. Blessed, naive, innocent little Jaskier. Jaw slack, mouth agape, eyes heavy with shock and sorrow, Jaskier nevertheless came up to him without fear, put his arms around him, led him from the street- 

The men in the tavern they had stopped at for a meal were already drunk. That in and of itself was hardly a surprise, even though it was still only mid-day. What seemed odd was that they fixated on Jaskier almost as soon as he and Geralt entered, and immediately started slinging insults his way. “Witcher’s whore!” was the most common one, but various derivatives of that were being tossed about as well. When Geralt caught eyes with one of the louder of the bunch, Jaskier saw him and instantly stopped him. “Don’t,” he whispered, blocking Geralt with his body and an arm across his chest. Geralt, though still snarling, backed down, and he and Jaskier were able to eat in relative peace. 

While they were finishing their drinks, though, the drunkards decided that more fun was to be had, and sidled over to the table. Jaskier, easy to read and easier to scare, scooted from the chair across from Geralt to the one next to him, putting the table between himself and the thugs. One hand came to rest on Geralt’s thigh underneath the table, squeezing tightly in an unspoken request: _don’t._

And Geralt settled for glaring and snarling and making the occasional scathing remark, which really only stopped the idiots for a handful of seconds at a time. At one point, Jaskier remarked that they were just leaving anyway. The most bold of the men, a tall, lanky pissant who stank of cheap ale and sweat, had swaggered around the table and grabbed Jaskier by the front of his shirt, telling him he wasn’t going anywhere until they’d taught them both a proper lesson about how fags were dealt with in this town. 

The hand left his thigh, and Geralt stood up. 

There were six of them total, and Geralt managed to haul and herd and prod them all out into the street, where he beat them bloody and mercilessly with nothing but his bare hands until they stopped trying to get up. When Jaskier came to collect him, he stomped back into the tavern with authority in his step and a glare waiting for anyone who tried to stop him. He fully intended to slam some money down on the counter to cover their food and then leave again in search of a friendlier climate, but the barmaid merely smiled, slid a key to him, and told him, “it’s on the house.” Softening, taking the gesture to mean that those particular snots were not representative of the whole of the town, Geralt growled ambiguously and snatched the key and made his way upstairs while Jaskier thanked the woman a bit too kindly before bolting after him up the stairs. Letting Geralt get out of eyeshot was a proven bad idea. 

*** 

He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes. Sweating and shaking for all the wrong reasons. Pressing his face to Jaskier’s shoulder seems to help. 

*** 

One night, Jaskier is also awake. 

“Come here,” he whispers, drawing Geralt into his arms effortlessly, without demands of explanation. Without judgment. Without constituency. He simply put his arms around him, tucks the furs in again, and hums, drawing his fingers through iron-white hair. Geralt realizes too late that he is trembling; at this point, he merely closes his eyes and gives in to it. 

“Do you want to talk?” 

It is enough to shake his head, and Jaskier becomes quiet and soft and comforting in all the ways he didn’t know he needed. The bard settles for softly humming and so gently touching him, convincing him, one moment at a time, to let peace back in. And when the memories of Vesemir become less sharp, when the sensation of his blood being set aflame has faded somewhat, when he can no longer so acutely recall the sensation of screaming so hard he coughed up blood, he begins to wonder when he started to feel so safe with a certain Dandelion. 

*** 

Yennefer says something. When she thinks he’s far enough away that he won't hear. 

“He gave you a gift, Dandelion,” she proclaims, haughty and proud and so sure of herself. “Be aware that he has never given it before, and likely won’t again.” 

“What are you talking about?” Jaskier scoffs nervously. “You’re standing here, another shining example of that.” 

He can’t see Yennefer’s smile, but he knows it is twisted and fey. “The only thing left between us is longing. Regret. Hope. And fear. He does not regret you, Jaskier. 

“See to it that he never does.” 

*** 

Geralt ponders briefly the perils of loving a mortal man. 

_My wolf._

As those precious lips breathe kisses against his, though, crooning sweet adornments he has by no means earned, he decides to indulge himself. 

Life is too short, indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have now chewed through three books and I'm not slowing down yet. I'm an addict. Fight me.
> 
> Super huge thanks to everyone who has left me kudos and comments so far, and another thank you to those who leave them now. <3 you all make me smile, I love hearing from you. Thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
